Page 28 of You Lied First

I never sleep well when I’ve been drinking, and the night under canvas is no different.

Sleep comes in fits and starts, and I wake frequently from short, turbulent dreams. The snap of the tent in the wind takes me by surprise, and the moon casts a strange glow through the canvas.

Outside, the unfamiliar sounds of the desert seem magnified, and the chittering, shuffling and scampering of creatures I imagine have beady black eyes cause me to lie rigid, holding my breath, as I wonder if they’re able to breach the tent.

I wish I’d paid more attention to Guy when he was telling us what wildlife we might see as I picture snakes, scorpions, cockroaches, lizards and spiders stalking me: eyes watching me; legs tangling in my hair; scales touching my face.

It’s cold, too, way colder than I imagined, and the air holds a clamminess that tries to claw its way into my bones.

Despite the duvet, I’m fully dressed, lying on my mattress, and that, too, feels alien, my skin protesting at being so smothered.

What Liv said about Celine being a fake friend is playing on my mind but, after I’ve rehashed almost every conversation I’ve had with Celine, I decide that I don’t really care.

Yes, she can be superficial but she’s, what, twenty-eight?

Thirty? I shudder to think what I was like at that age.

But if she’s being a fake friend to anyone, it’s to Margot because, if I’m right about the chemistry I sensed after they played golf and in the car, there’s something between Celine and Guy.

If not now, then in the past, and maybe that’s what Flynn is unconsciously picking up on, too.

Anyway, I tell myself as I sigh and roll over for the millionth time, in the general scheme of things, it doesn’t really matter whether or not Celine likes me. It’s not like I’m planning to be best friends with her. I’m under no illusions that I’ll ever see her again once I’m on the plane home.

I fall asleep properly some time just before dawn because when I wake, the tent is stuffy with the warmth of the rising sun, and the light’s bright against the tent wall.

Outside I can hear voices: Guy and Margot must be pottering about as I hear the chink of a teaspoon on a tin cup and the clack of plates being stacked, so it’s guilt that gets me up and out.

Wearing the clothes I slept in, I unzip the tent and emerge into the sunlight, blinking like a mole.

The site looks as if it’s had an overnight visit from the cleaning fairies: the rubbish is in black bags, the empty bottles stacked back in a box ready to be loaded into the car and the fire pit safely cleared.

Guy’s bending over the camping stove; Margot over the barbecue.

Both turn and wave. How they can be so fresh I have no idea: my own throbbing head reminds me of the skinful I drank so recklessly the night before.

‘Morning!’ Guy says. ‘Just in time for breakfast. We’ve got eggs, toast, beans and croissants. Sleep well?’

‘Well enough, thanks.’ I roll my shoulders. ‘Though I could do with a Panadol. How about you?’

‘So-so,’ Margot says. Now I’m closer, I can see she looks tired. ‘Here, look, we’ve made coffee – it’s keeping warm in the Thermos. Help yourself.’

‘Thanks – how about the teens? Are they up yet?’

‘They’ve gone to make TikToks on the dunes,’ Guy says, and I laugh.

‘As you do. And Celine?’

Margot shrugs and I look over at her tent, which is still zipped. I pour myself a steaming cup of black coffee and cup it in both hands as I breathe in the aroma.

‘Thanks for clearing up.’ I picture all the empty bottles we’d left lying around, the dirty plates, the simmering coals. ‘What time did you get up to do all that?’

‘Oh, you know Margot,’ Guys says. ‘Up with the bloody larks.’

‘Well, thanks for doing it.’

‘You’re welcome. Right: eggs are ready. Beans are ready,’ Guy says. ‘Margot, if the toast’s done, we should eat while everything’s hot. Sara, why don’t you see if you can get Celine up?’

‘Oh. Okay.’

I go over to her tent, squat down outside and call her name. I wait but there’s no sound from inside. ‘Celine! Wakey, wakey! There’s breakfast if you want it!’ Still nothing. I lean in closer to the zip, my mouth almost touching the fabric. ‘Yoo-hoo! Celine! Are you even in there?’

‘Just open it!’ Guy shouts.

I unzip the bottom of the tent and peer in. I can see one socked foot poking out from under the duvet. ‘Celine?’

There’s no movement, so I unzip more and crawl half inside the small space. ‘Celine?’

She’s lying on her back with her eyes closed.

I reach out and touch the sleeve of her fleece, but there’s no movement at all.

I shake her by the arm and it’s as heavy and unresponsive as one of those dummies I learned mouth-to-mouth on years ago.

I touch her hand but it’s cold. I shake her more vigorously, and then I back out of the tent not wanting to admit to myself what my mind already knows.

‘Guys! She won’t wake up!’

All my First Aid training deserts me. I stand there, useless, my hand over my mouth. I’m aware of someone saying, ‘Oh my God’ over and over, and I realise it’s me. Guy reaches me in a heartbeat, both his hands steady on my upper arms as he tries to calm me.

‘She’s probably just passed out from all the booze.’

But I’m shaking my head. I just know: Celine is not all right. My eyes search Guy’s in panic.

‘Why isn’t she waking up? Something’s wrong. Really wrong.’

I pull away from Guy, intending to go back in, but he’s there before me, pushing past into the tent. He crawls inside and the flap falls down after his feet disappear. Margot tries to go in after him but can’t – the tent’s too small for three bodies.

She drags her hand through her hair. Her eyes are wide with alarm.

‘Do you think she’s …?’

I can’t speak. I just shake my head, then turn away as my insides squeeze, saliva floods my mouth and suddenly I’m hunched over, heaving onto the sand, painful retches that bring up water and bile and then the acidic tang of last night’s alcohol.

Margot’s hand rubs my back and, when I straighten back up, spitting, she hands me a crumpled wad of tissues from her pocket.

I want nothing more than for her to tell me I’ve made a mistake but, after a few moments, as Margot and I watch, stupefied, Guy backs out of the tent and I see by the thin line of his mouth and the small shake of his head that I am right: no amount of effort is going to wake Celine Cremorne ever again.